


1. The Suffering Artist

by sahiya



Series: Five Times Someone Took Care of Neal and One Time He Did the Care-Taking [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Burns, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal suffers for his art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Suffering Artist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheenianni](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sheenianni).



> Happy Holidays, Sheeni!

“Ow. Ow, ow, _ow_.”

“Histrionics do not become you,” Mozzie said, frowning at Neal. 

Neal found that pretty rich, coming from him. “Burns hurt, you know.”

“Sometimes we must suffer for our art,” Mozzie intoned, continuing to spread Neosporin on the tiny burns spattered all up and down Neal’s wrists. The ointment made them sting more fiercely for a second or two, before they subsided into numbness. “Did you get what we need?”

“Yeah,” Neal said with a sigh. “The gold is melted, it just needs to be poured into the molds.”

“And then we need to make the switch,” Mozzie said. 

“Right,” Neal said. “But that’s Alex’s problem, not ours.” And a good thing, too, he found himself thinking. He didn’t think of himself as someone with a low pain tolerance, but melting the gold had been a much more painful endeavor than he’d expected. It’d left him worn out, drained. The molds were made; Mozzie could deal with them. “I think I’m going to bed. Wake me if you have any problems.”

“Unlikely,” Mozzie said with a sniff. “Pouring molten gold into a few molds is hardly rocket science. Go sleep the sleep of the soon-to-be victorious.”

The next couple of days were busy ones. The switch was a one person job, and Alex had already won the coin toss, but Neal was involved in the planning, not to mention there were finishing touches to be put on the forgeries so that they’d pass muster. Neal found himself living on adrenaline and coffee for about thirty-six hours, and it wasn’t until he and Mozzie were sitting in the apartment, waiting for Alex to return from the job, that Neal realized his hands were a lot more painful than they should have been. Even more worrying, he really didn’t feel very well. 

He didn’t say anything to Moz, who was paranoid about this sort of thing to begin with. Instead he locked himself in the bathroom and forced himself to look at his hands, _really_ look at them, for the first time since he’d melted the gold. Apart from that first night, he hadn’t put Neosporin on them, and he probably should have. No, make that he _definitely_ should have. He winced at the sight of the burns; some of the shallower ones seemed to be healing, but there were three or four that were red and weeping, definitely infected. 

“Neal?” Mozzie said from outside the door. “You okay? I told you not to order the shrimp.”

Neal grimaced. Mozzie was going to be insufferable. He might have been able to hide it, but he didn’t think the infection was going to go away on its own. He was probably going to need antibiotics. Going to the emergency room was always a risk, and Mozzie’s black-market connections - if it came to that - were much better than Neal’s own. 

He took a deep breath and opened the door. Before Moz could say a word, Neal held out his hands. Mozzie peered at them and then swore, colorfully. “Neal! Why didn’t you say anything?”

Neal sighed. “I only just noticed. We’ve all been a bit busy.”

Mozzie ushered him over to sit on the sofa. “Have you been putting the ointment on them?”

“No,” Neal admitted.

“ _Neal!_ ” 

“I thought they were fine,” Neal muttered, already regretting telling Mozzie. 

“Burns get infected if you look at them funny,” Mozzie said. “Are you sweating? I think you’re sweating.”

“It’s warm in here,” Neal said, pulling at the collar of his sweater.

“Not that warm.” Mozzie pressed a hand against Neal’s forehead. “You’re running a fever. Listen, you stay here, wait for Alex to get back, I’m going for some antibiotics. _Don’t_ argue,” Mozzie added, as Neal opened his mouth to do just that. “Are you really going to put your hands at risk, Neal? Your _hands_?”

Neal snapped his mouth shut. “No.” 

“Good.” Mozzie was already going for his coat. “Stay here and try not to do anything stupid while I’m gone.” 

Alone, with no one to distract him, his hands hurt worse than before. Neal went to the kitchen for a bag of ice and then lay down on the sofa with it over his hands. It was 8:07, he noticed, looking at the clock. Their schedule called for Alex to make the swap at 8:10. He watched the second hand go around the clock face. He knew precisely which gallery Alex would be in at that moment. He’d cased the museum with her, and they’d planned her route together. He knew it almost as well as she did. But his eyes grew heavier with each tick of the clock, and before the minute hand had reached the ten, he was asleep. 

_Neal, Neal. Wake up._

_What the hell’s the matter with him?_

_He burned his hands melting the gold, and they got infected. Neal,_ wake up.

Neal twitched, trying to get away. Mozzie was trying to get him to sit up, and that was very mean of him. He slipped something into Neal’s mouth - a pill - and made him swallow it with water. Neal almost choked, but he managed to get it down. The water tasted so good that he dragged his eyes open and tried clumsily to hold the glass. Mozzie swam into view overhead, and just behind him, Alex. 

“Did it work?” Neal managed blearily, between sips of water.

“Yeah, Caffrey, it did,” Alex said. “You’re an idiot, you know that?”

“He’s aware,” Mozzie said, his tone weirdly snappish. “Would you go put some water on for tea? He needs to hydrate.”

“Yeah, sure,” Alex said, and left the room. 

Neal blinked at Moz. “You mad at her?” he asked. “Not her fault. Job was my idea.”

“Not the point,” Mozzie said, avoiding Neal’s gaze. He had more ointment for Neal’s hands - different ointment, something with a prescription label on it. It must’ve had a painkiller in it, too, because it soothed the fire in his hands almost immediately. Neal let out a tiny sigh of relief and slumped back against couch cushions. “I’m the only one who gets to call you an idiot. Now shut up and let me save you from yourself. _Again_.”

Neal smiled and closed his eyes. Mozzie would wake him when the tea was ready, he was sure, but for the moment he was content to lie back and rest, knowing that he was in competent - if fussy - hands.


End file.
